


oh love, love will keep you up tonight

by aphrodite (amurgin)



Series: your love is an open flame, burning us [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-20 02:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20667563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amurgin/pseuds/aphrodite
Summary: “You were taking too long.”“And you were being too patient with me.”Their earlier kiss had come to an end only to begin anew, this time at the behest of Sylvain, who, wrapping his arm around Linhardt’s waist, made miracles out of his unspoken desires. With converging bodies, they shared each other in soft-touched intimacies—Linhardt’s arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, fingers languorously playing in the short snippets of hair, and Sylvain’s own hands steadfast on his waist, kneading the flesh there lovingly.





	oh love, love will keep you up tonight

Their first encounter had been memorable, to put it delicately. 

It wasn’t that they hadn’t met each other before or that they didn’t know _ of _ each other. The halls of Garreg Mach were only so wide, with only so many faces worth committing to memory. Only three classrooms, too, that seemed inescapably suffocating amidst the routine of everyday school life. The walls they shared would appear small at times, but even smaller at others. As for the two of them, they had just not been formally introduced, the need for it never having arisen, though _ this _ hardly counted as a proper introduction. 

Yet another day had come and passed effortlessly, running itself into the steady stream of monotony. For him, it was a couple of missed lectures. A stern, albeit ineffective, scolding from the Professor. A nap in the clearing at the base of the hill, just beneath the old oak tree he had discovered by accident already so long ago. Its distinguishing feature, an all-encompassing crown that cast a colossal shadow, made it _ the _ optimal napping spot, especially on the more stifling days of summer heat. 

By then, night had taken its turn. 

The moon, so full and large, hung low above the horizon, so low that one might have been tempted to reach up, believing it to be within their grasp. It illuminated the sky, a great white light emanating from the satellite like magic diffusing, chasing away the stars and leaving the sky so very clear. An alluring sight, romantic for some, but Linhardt had become too engrossed in his studies to notice. Romance was a luxury his kind, scientists, rarely afforded. 

Unlike the outside world, the scenery of the library remained a constant, the only change noticeable in the mounds of wax melted at the foot of the candles, which consumed themselves in a mild flame. As he sat down, the features of Linhardt’s face were cast deep into darkness, save for the shallow light of a candelabra that worked itself tirelessly to soften up his skin. He had taken up the space at the center of an arcane circle built out of all manners of study materials—books hastily pulled off the shelves, loose sheets of paper filled with hypotheses and theories written in an enigmatic hand, scribbles of geometric models, along with other such notes. There, he remained just out of view of anybody who might share his late-night reading habits. Mostly Annette, though Ashe and Ingrid were no uncommon sight. _ A house of book worms, _ he had thought fondly, considering joining for what must have been the hundredth time before casting the thought away. _ Too much effort. _ Still, it was for that previous reason that Linhardt thought so little when the rowdy steps of one, two people stole upstairs. 

Behind them, a trail of echoes followed, of hushed laughter and giggling. The rush of steps came to a halt, and then, there was the rustling of clothes, a belt buckle coming undone, the upper floor creaking as it dipped at the contact. He _ should _ have heard them, subtlety and silence obviously not their strongest suit as more and more sounds joined the fray. The sharp slap of skin. A gasp, a moan, a cry. But he remained unperturbed, enthralled by the hope, the promise of a breakthrough. And surely, there was a break to be made, a break through skin. 

_ “Yes. Yes, of course! How could such a mistake escape me…”_, that, alone, was not all that escaped him. From above, the steady sound of a pounding grew brasher, little by little, rattling the books inside the shelves like a set of chittering teeth, uneasy at the thought of being caught in such a state. The railing clattered and the staircase trembled, making for a rather loud and indiscreet scene.

If only he had ventured to stand up, approaching that initial starting step, Linhardt might have seen, peeking over the upper landing, a head of red, bobbing rhythmically

He did not move though, not a lone twitch in his muscles as he remained seated, his nose level with the ground, hand furiously erasing and rewriting. 

_“Oh. Oh! I guess_ _there’s at least one__—Ah! One__ thing the rumours were right about.” _In between labored breaths, a voice proclaimed quietly. 

_ “Mhm. And what would that be?” _

_ “That your ego might not be the biggest thing about you.” _

The second voice thundered with laughter. It boomed and echoed, but not as loudly as the ensuing thud of two bodies taking a dive and a bunch of books joining in. It was then that Linhardt, sitting upright like a cat with whiskers dip-dyed white in cream, looked behind him. 

Unbelievable. To think that _ someone _ would dare take up valuable space in the expansive library of Garreg Mach _ only _ to engage in such frivolous acts of debauchery. To think that _ someone _ would dare interrupt him at such a crucial time. It was just his luck in life, having to be surrounded by such classless brutes.

_ “Good goddess, Sylvain! You are an absolute wreck.” _

_ “Wait! Baby!” _ A slip, followed by another crash. _ “Come on!” _But it was too late. She was already halfway down the staircase, one stocking crumpled around her ankle. The top two buttons of her shirt sat undone, and she held the standard uniform jacket in her hand, dragging it behind her as she stormed off.

_ “Don’t. And don’t bother seeking me out again either!” _

With that, she was gone, still unaware that they had never been alone. Sylvain did, eventually, chase after her, stopping just a few paces off of the staircase. 

_ “Sheesh. What’s her deal anyway?” _

_ “Perhaps it was your poor choice of location.” _

_ “Whoa!” _ Sylvain dipped forward, seemingly just as dense as his companion. Hearing Linhardt speak, he almost tripped for what would have been the third, shameful, shameful time that day. _ “You scared the eternal flame right out of me, man. Wait _ _ —just how long have you been there?” _

Linhardt shrugged. His focus had returned to his papers earlier on, but now, he was peering over his shoulder, fixing Sylvain to his spot through half-lidded eyes. 

_ “What time is it?” _

_ “It was close to midnight when we left to come here.” _

_ “Then”_, dropping his eyes to his hands, he counted, _ “six, maybe closer to seven hours.” _Sylvain breathed out, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

_ “Yeesh. So you’re that type of guy.” _

_ “Type?” _

_ “Yeah, you know.” _ Despite the lack of empathy in his tone and his rather poor choice of words, Sylvain walked up behind Linhardt, some kind of interest underlying his gait. _ “The type of guy that spends all his free time glued to a book instead of having some actual fun.” _He crouched right beside him, gazing over his shoulder in an attempt to make sense of what he was seeing. 

From below, Linhardt’s own eyes drifted to the dip between his pectorals, the slight sheen of his skin, where, when squinting, he could see a thin film of perspiration. Sylvain’s shirt and jacket were both open, hastily thrown back over his shoulders with little purpose. His hair was a mess, sticking to his face by way of the same kind of intensely overworked sweat, his stomach was toned, and, despite his nonchalance, the front of his pants was still awfully tight. 

_ “I suppose you aren’t wrong.” _ Prying his stare off of Sylvain, Linhardt began gathering his papers, stacking them neatly and evening them out against the floor. _ “And you, you fall into your own archetype, don’t you?” _

_ “I guess I do.” _ Sylvain laughed heartily, getting back up to his feet where he could meet Linhardt as he stood up, papers and books now clutched against his chest. A barrier of sorts, to keep the likes of Sylvain out. _ “Mind enlightening me?” _

Big words from someone looking like that, so disheveled and out of place. He stood out obnoxiously against the soothing backdrop of the library. Stepping around him, Linhardt began walking towards the exit. 

_ “A playboy would describe you best. Though I suppose that is a rather nice way of putting it. A philanderer, then.” _

_ “Whoa there—it’s Linhardt, right?” _ Sylvain slid in front of him, blocking up the way. He was just slightly taller, but the expanse of his shoulders was far wider than Linhardt’s, who stood on the thinner, narrower side of the spectrum. _ “Hold your horses, will you?” _

_ “Metaphorical or not, I have no horses to hold. If you’re worried about what I might say, I assure you, far worse things have been said about you. However, I don’t plan on saying anything at all because you present no interest to me whatsoever.” _ The edge of his voice was as blunt as his words. Quite frankly, Linhardt couldn’t be bothered to care. _ “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will continue my research elsewhere.” _

This time around, Sylvain did not stop him from leaving. Instead, he turned around a few seconds later, as if it had taken him just that long to process the figurative slap of Linhardt’s words. Their sting had left a fresh cut across his heart. 

Standing there speechless, he watched the sight of Linhardt’s back retreat further and further away, until, after taking a turn, he disappeared as quickly as he had appeared in Sylvain’s short-lived affair. Left there all on his own, he spoke to no one other than himself. 

_ “No interest, huh? That guy’s really something else.” _

The sound of a chuckle was the last to grace the library that night.

✿ ✿

Barely half a day later, Sylvain spotted him in the garden. 

Sprawled along one of the benches, and without even a slight bit of awareness, Linhardt was carelessly asleep. An arm laid bent at an angle beneath his head, propping it up as a makeshift pillow, and one of his legs dangled off the edge, toes touching the ground beneath. From above, the sun warmed up his back as he slept on his stomach soundlessly. 

Overall, it hardly looked like a comfortable position, but Sylvain had his doubts. Judging by the serene look on his face, the subtle movement of his chest inflating and deflating with every breath seized and released, Linhardt was at peace sleeping beneath the open sun. 

Below him was a book, discarded negligently in the grass, waiting for the return of it’s reader’s attention. But it was not Linhardt who pleased it as such. Sylvain, kneeling onto the ground, picked it up and dusted off the dew its cover had accumulated. 

_ “If this is so important, don’t you ought to be more careful with it?” _A pointless question aimed at the Sleeping Beauty, who was hardly in any position to reply. 

Though he hadn’t gotten to investigate it closely the last time they had seen each other, Linhardt’s hands a little too quick at covering up his tracks, Sylvain _ did _ recognize the cover. Leather-bound, both warm and soft to the touch, a bit too thick for his personal liking, but attractive nonetheless. Attractive in that _ “book sort of way” _ . He had quickly deemed it to be a favorable tome, based, in a characteristic cliché, on a judgement made entirely off of its cover. A mistake signed _ With love, Sylvain Jose Gautier. _

Once its aesthetic capabilities had been exhausted, Sylvain settled on the title, which read, in an unnecessarily ornate font, _ A Chronology of Crestological Feats: The Essential Guide to Crestology. _

_ Ah, _garbage then. It was garbage and nothing more. 

Letting it fall back to the ground without any regard, Sylvain stood up only to take a seat at Linhardt’s feet, on the small portion of the bench not occupied by his body. His expression had become clouded, lip darkened by a grimace. Yet, at the sound of a muffled groan, it was quickly veiled thinly in a kind of counterfeit courtesy. It had not been his intention, given how careful and silent he had been. Nevertheless, Linhardt began to stir, and shortly after being overtaken by no fewer than four bouts of yawning, he joined Sylvain at his side.

_ “Margrave Gautier”, _ the drowsiness remained present in his speech, words slurred slightly, as if he was still testing out his own tongue, still remembering how to speak. _ “Were you trying to make up for your lack of foresight the other night by intruding upon one of my own private moments?” _

_ “First of all, ‘Margrave Gautier’ is my father. Second of all, we’re outside.” _

Linhardt, having now wrapped up the incessant rubbing of his eyes, opened them to look around, taking note of the buzzing of students roaming the gardens, of the skies and the birds twittering aloft, and of Sylvain, watching him with a quirked eyebrow. 

_ “That we are. I shall retreat to my room then, since you insist on keeping me up.” _Linhardt had just made an attempt at standing up when Sylvain grabbed his arm and pulled him.

_ “Hey, hey. Not so fast.” _ But he paused, taking an unnaturally long break before speaking again. Cocking his head to the side, he held Linhardt in close scrutiny, eyes rapidly narrowing and widening as he looked him all over. They were seated next to each other, thighs brushing up, breaths so close it was hard to tell where one began and the other ended. When he resumed, it was only after a sigh. _ “Don’t you think it’s only fair you offer up something in exchange for intruding on my private moment with the little lady?” _

_ “Why?” _ Linhardt watched him disapprovingly but genuinely contemplated his words, head cocked to the side as he did so. _ “It was your mistake.” _

_ “Fine, I guess you’re not wrong. But it still doesn’t feel fair.” _

_ “Oh! You think I saw you naked, don’t you? Th__—”, _but he was unable to finish his sentence, not when Sylvain suddenly clamped his hands over Linhardt’s mouth, effectively silencing him. 

_ “Shhh!” _ However, the damage had already been done. A number of students and knights had ceased their own conversations and activities in favor of entertaining theirs. _ “Not so loud! Don’t you think before you speak?” _

Linhardt blinked a few times, and since his mouth was still covered, he merely shook his head. 

_ “Well, think of me before you say anything else.” _

_ “I don’t see why I should since we don’t know each other.” _ Sylvain had let go. _ “You are inconsequential to me.” _

That seemed to shut him up once more, leaving him to his own thoughts as Linhardt looked on indifferently. Yet again, he wasn’t wrong. 

_ “You really don’t mince your words, do you?” _ He chuckled, but instead of his usual boisterous nature, Sylvain sounded briefly anguished. Soon enough though, he was back to his usual. _ “It doesn’t matter.” _ And standing up, he posed, visage all alight and gleaming with his characteristic narcissism. It suited him better, Linhardt thought to himself. _ “I am Sylvain Jose Gautier, son of Margrave Gautier, bearer of a minor crest of Gautier, and also, a dashingly handsome daredevil of love.” _

Though Linhardt’s expression hardly changed, the air around him seemed to take on slight hints of displeasure, frustration, and vexation. 

_ “Of course, I already knew that.” _

_ “But wait, didn’t you say I ‘present no interest to you’?” _

_ “I did say that, yes. But I fail to see how those two statements correlate.” _

Reclaiming his earlier seat with arms crossed upon his chest, Sylvain’s eyebrows pulled together at the middle. He was having a hard time reading Linhardt, which was turning out to be exceedingly problematic since reading people was just about the only thing he considered himself good at. 

_ “I thought you were interested in crests.” _

_ “I am.” _ If Linhardt was surprised at how well-informed Sylvain was, he did not show it. _ “But yours is a rather common crest. Nothing special, unlike say, for instance, the Professor’s or Marianne’s.” _

_ “So, you don’t care about my crest? Not at all?” _Baffled. Perhaps a little perplexed. Sylvain had never expected such an answer, and it almost angered him that some part of him, small but present, felt offended and upset at not being seen as special by Linhardt, someone who held a more noble (if possible) interest in crests. How ironic of him. 

_ “On second thought, I see how that might seem odd to you.” _ He went silent with a hum, pondering for a short while how to best articulate his thoughts. _ “Yes, crests in general fascinate me, but not for the usual reasons. My area of research is quite a niche one.” _

_ “Tell me more about it.” _

_ “And for what purpose?” _

Linhardt had no qualms when it came to discussing his research, so long as whoever listened had a genuine interest in the topic. For that reason, he couldn’t help feeling curious about Sylvain’s intentions. It was hard to see how such a conversation would benefit him. 

_ “Consider it payback. You tell me about why you're studying crestology and I won’t hound you about last night.” _

A fair trade, if it meant no more interrupted naps. Pacing himself, Linhardt turned away from him, facing straight ahead instead and leaving Sylvain to watch him from the side. 

_ “The main purpose of crests has always been to maximize combat, and I, well, I despise war. There is nothing I hate more than blood.” _

_ “Then why do you care so much about them? Shouldn't crests turn you off completely?” _

_ “Indeed, that is one way of looking at it. But I believe that understanding one’s crest is a means to understanding one’s self. If I can uncover the truth b_ _ehind those crests which have thrived in times of battle, I may yet be able to better understand human nature and our tendency to glorify war, and, in doing so__—” _

_ “Find a way to stop it.” _ At that, he turned back, finding Sylvain plunged deep in thought, chin held in the palms of his hands while his elbows remained rooted into his knees. _ “Linhardt…That’s idealistic. At best.” _

_ “It may be so. But my research might help save some lives, some day. And if I could stop war, even for a day, it would be worth it.” _

To that, there was no reply. Sylvain remained unnervingly still, until, finally, he spoke in a voice so quiet, it vanished as quickly as it came out, reclaimed by the whistling of the wind as it passed them by. 

_ “Do you—Do you think you could find a way to remove crests?” _

The air between them stilled, thinning out at the top after falling to the ground, as if it had turned into a big, great weight. Around them, the sounds, too, seemed to die off until nothing else remained.

_ “If war were to stop, it is my prediction that crests may cease to exist on their own. Without war, they would have no purpose and, from an evolutionary perspective, should disappear in time, making it easier to remove them alltogether.” _ The confidence with which he spoke seemed to give Sylvain a flicker of hope, a glint that fossilized inside his amber irises as he looked at Linhardt expectantly. _ “Is that what you want?” _

_ “More than anything in this world.” _

_ “Mhm.” _ Linhardt hummed before falling silent. The atmosphere around them had only further coagulated, making it harder than ever to speak. Though he did not understand why, Linhardt’s lungs felt heavy when he risked a glimpse at Sylvain. He remained hunched over, gaze intent on an enemy seated somewhere at the horizon, the same unseen force that possessed Linhardt to speak again. _ “Removing your crest isn’t going to solve your problems.” _

_ “Sorry?” _

_ “Whatever you’re struggling with, it won’t end there. Thinking that that would be enough to fix your life’s flaws is a romantic notion.” _

_ “Like you’re one to talk.” _ Suddenly standing up, Sylvain lashed out, his voice whipping in a fury. “ _ Look, I appreciate your advice or whatever, but you don’t know a single thing about me, Linhardt. So don’t act like you do.” _Then, he stormed off, not sparing so much as a single glance back. 

It took Linhardt a few moments to recollect, to realize what had just transpired, even though he couldn’t figure out what it was that he had said wrong, mostly because he wasn't wrong. Sylvain knew this, purposefully not giving himself the chance to wait around and figure out that Linhardt and him were nothing more than two sides of the same blade, fighting a war from two sides with the same weapons. 

_ "What a shame. He's gone and made a spectacle out of the both of us." _Linhardt muttered to himself as everybody around watched him, and though he did not care for their stares, he found that he did care for Sylvain's. Or the lack of it. 

Beneath the burning glare of the sun, Linhardt did realize that, for better or worse, that had been the first time Sylvain called him by his name knowingly. 

✿ ✿

Days that soon turned into weeks passed in a shared monotony, 

He didn’t think much of it. Not at first. But things became rather troublesome by the turn of the second week. Sylvain made letting go a chore for him, pointedly making a show out of avoiding Linhardt, which only further reminded him that something _ had _gone wrong. That the weight he had felt that day in the gardens kept growing larger with each rising sun, each twilight moon, until it became impossible to ignore. It shouldn’t have bothered him that much, but it did, and the realization that somebody’s opinion troubled him was the only thought to make him feel even worse. 

He should have been past caring about what others thought of him.

Except Sylvain had showed up in his life in a storm of books, pages fluttering as they fell to the ground, and years of dismissal carefully engineered at the expense of being labelled as apathetic, uncaring, and cold were washed away. All because one foolish womanizer couldn't keep it in his pants. 

It was a real pity that his life had turned out to be such a cliché. 

The worst of it all, though, was the sleep. Lack of, to be precise. Sleeping had slowly vanished, bit by bit, night after night, relegating him to the company of books and the meager light of candles. An ideal pastime, had it not been for his conscience, weighing so heavily that thoughts had at long last stopped coming altogether. Aside from thoughts of _ him _, that was. The image of his back, hunched over, and his figure, so much smaller that way. As if peering through the looking glass, Linhardt had seen glimpses of the past, memories of what had once been his own body, ever-shrinking, with knees clutched tightly within his arms. Even awake, he had been tormented by the ghosts of nightmares past. 

This was his third straight day having stayed awake, and it was today that he decided to seek out the villain of his mind.

But finding Sylvain would prove to be a feat in and of itself, and after trying out the tea gardens, the mess hall, and the dorms, Linhardt gave up on finding him, settling instead on finding somebody who might know where he was. 

With that in mind, he made his way to the training grounds. If Sylvain didn’t have a girl or boy on his arm, then he would be the one clinging off of Felix’s arm. Surely, if somebody knew, it would be him. 

Noon had come by the time he arrived, meaning that the space was empty, save for the fighting machine, himself, doing drills in the far corner. Sylvain, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

_ “Felix._” 

Silence, and then a little louder, sharper.

“_Felix?” _

_ “Hm?” _ A curious hum, as he turned. _ “Linhardt? Are you here to train?” _

_ “No, surely not. My apologies for interrupting your afternoon practice. But I was wondering if you had any idea where I might find Sylvain?” _

At that, his eyes narrowed, eyebrows knitting themselves together in a line of perplexity. 

_ “Why?” _ Cutthroat. Dry. Wry. _ “Did he do something to you? Stood you up? Flirted with your grandmother?” _

_ “No, no. Nothing of the sort. Or at least I hope. I fear it is I who has wronged him.” _

_ “That so?” _ His eyebrows drifted back to a place of neutrality, seemingly released from the iron grip they had been snatched by previously. _ “It might not be a bad thing. He deserves a taste of his own medicine every now and then.” _

_ “Still, I wish to apologize.” _

It was brief, but for the duration of an inhalation, Felix’s eyes flickered as they studied the finer details of Linhardt’s face. However, the moment was quickly cut short by the slow creak of the doors, and the arrival of a third. 

_ “Thought you’d be holed up in here again. I brought something…to eat.” _ By the way his face fell downward, he must have not expected to see Linhardt up that closely_. _ Not there, not anywhere. 

_ “Sylvain.” _

_ “Oh, hey!” _ Coming up to them, he stopped a few feet away, hesitantly. _ “Didn’t think you were the type to train.” _

_ “I’m not. I was looking for you. _

_ “Ah. I see.” _

Linhardt with his infinite honest, Linhardt with his blunt edges, his full words, and short, serrated sentences, _ that _ Linhardt made it impossible for him to keep running. 

_ “Listen, I—"_

_ “I’d like to apologize. It was presumptuous and downright rude of me to assume knowledge of your circumstances.” _ With downcast eyes, he held his hands close to his body. _ “I’m often told my demeanour comes across as ill-mannered, but I assure you, that was not my intention.” _

His head hung low, and with that, he moved to walk away, heading back towards the doorway. But it was Sylvain’s turn to take control of the situation. He grasped his wrist, effortlessly pulling him back. Always, always reeling him in.

_ “I should be the one apologizing.” _ Laughing softly, he poorly hid his nerves. _ “Truthfully, I like that about you, Lin, because I can always count on you to be honest with me, and I don’t want you to change because of me. What I said back then—I spoke out of turn. And I’m sorry for it.” _

_ Lin. _That’s what he had called him. 

It sounded sweet, too kind, and so very gentle. 

_ Lin. _

That was all he could think of, and had it not been for how intently he had been listening, Linhardt would have noticed the heat of the hand that touched his skin, the flush that crept up his neck and to his cheeks.

_ “Ugh, how insufferable. Either take it to Sylvain’s room or spar with me.” _

_ “Jealous much, Felix?” _ And with a chuckle, he let go of Linhardt, who, despite not noticing its presence, _ did _notice the absence of his hand, longing for its return once again. 

_ “What are you trying to say, idiot?” _

_ “Don’t worry. You’re more my type anyway.” _

Having said all that needed to be said, Sylvain reached for Felix, and it was then that Linhardt realized, for the first time, what his eyes were seeing. 

Sylvain’s fingers, long and pointed, outstretched to grasp at Felix’s long, tied-up tresses. It was a delicate movement, painfully so, and even when he had attained them, leaning in to press them to his lips, it remained so. A sweet and loving gesture. 

Felix, too, could not help the fluster that blanketed his skin. It must have felt much like Linhardt’s, a warm glow that pulsated from deep within, like the quickened pace of a heartbeat rushing endlessly towards no attainable goal. Its existence an undeniable reality, but the sight of it a mystery. And despite his bark, no bite followed. He allowed Sylvain to indulge in touching him, and, in doing so, to indulge Felix in his presence. 

It was the stuff of lovers. Something Linhardt did not know how to understand, but recognized it plainly for what it was. 

_ “Get off me!” _He swung, more as a formality, if anything, and Sylvain dodged deftly, with experience. Like this was commonplace, because it was. For them. 

_ “Steady, Felix. You wouldn’t wanna hurt me, would you?” _

_ “Did my sword stutter?” _

_ "No, no, don't. You're really hot swinging your sword around like that." _

_ "I wonder if you'll think the same when I cut your tongue off. What say you, shall we put it to the test?" _

The sight of them was unbearably warm, and he yearned to be a part of it. To grace the same painting they did. To be a part of something bigger than just himself. 

From his spot, where the ground began to soften and sink, promising to swallow him whole, Linhardt watched Sylvain speak in enamored tongues to somebody who did not know how to love him back. 

✿ ✿

_ “Linhardt!” _By now a familiar sight, Sylvain stood propped against the side of the building, waving himself over before joining him at his side. 

He would often seek Linhardt out, which wasn’t exactly hard, given that he frequented three places: his room, the dining hall, and the library, all of which were in a relatively short distance of each other. Once he found him, Sylvain would engage in idle chat. The weather, the girls, sometimes the guys. Mostly Felix when it came to the latter. Nothing of too much consequence, and they rarely discussed Linhardt’s crest research. After their last encounter, they had both consented, in silence, to ignore the topic altogether. 

On most days, he was talkative, almost bubbly in his own way. On others, he was resigned, tail between his legs as he let Linhardt lead their conversations. An inconvenience, really. Socializing was not only a bore, but it heavily depleted his energy levels. Still, Linhardt found himself obliging every time for some unfathomable reason he refused to poke and prod at. Some pages were better left unturned.

Today, it was the former. Sylvain was evidently struck with glee, his voice booming and roaring at twice its usual speed.

_ “You won’t guess what happened today.” _He had a devilish grin on, all mischief and no good. If Linhardt focused a little harder, squeezed his eyes a little tighter, then the points of horns would certainly rise from underneath his hair. 

_ “Allow me to take a shot at it anyway. Hmm.” _He hummed, tapping the pad of a fingertip to his lower lip. _ “Poor little—what was her name again? Ah, yes—Poor little Amelia of House Dubois must have gave in to your shameful advances.” _

_ “Well, yes—” _

_ “And you will be joining her for dinner tonight, no, tomorrow night.” _

_ “You got me there, somehow. But I bet you can’t guess what In—” _

_ “Ingrid, understandably upset at your silly attempt at going out with all four of the Dubois daughters simultaneously, threatened to ‘chain you to Professor Byleth’s desk’.” _

_ “Yeah! Personally, I thought she was being quite kinky, making such threats—wait.” _ His eyes narrowed, and he pointed an accusatory finger at Linhardt. _ “You were there? At lunch?” _

_ “Yes, me and approximately sixty-eight percent of the monastery’s population.” _

_ “Man, that’s cheating.” _He shook his head with a sigh, but soon, he was laughing again. _“You gotta admit though, my plan was genius.” _

_“Genius is not the word I’m inclined to use.”_

_“Brilliant?”_

_“No.”_

_“Super smart?”_

_“Definitely not.” _

_“Pure poetry, then.”_

_“No—What?” _

Sylvain's response was more laughter. He was visibly amused by the subtle twitch Linhardt’s eyebrow had adopted. 

They had been walking like that for a while when they reached the gate of the monastery and continued right through it. Sylvain, glancing towards Linhardt, took on a teasing tone. 

_ “Got plans outside the monastery? My, and you didn’t tell your good friend about it?” _

Something had caught his attention because Linhardt came to an abrupt halt, leaving Sylvain to pass right by him before noticing. 

_ “Sylvain, is that what we are?” _

_ “Hm?” _ He turned back, a curious look flashing across his face before his eyes rounded upwards and he smiled warmly. _ “Of course we are. Did you think I’d be hanging out with you this much if we weren’t?” _

_ “You didn’t say anything.” _

_ “Should I announce that you’re my friend, then? Cause I don’t mind letting everybody know.” _His chest began inflating and, before he could shout it out into the world, Linhardt rushed to his side, covering his mouth with both hands and shushing him sharply. 

_ “Don’t.” _Because they weren’t just friends. That much was no secret. Linhardt had become aware of it, too, his face lighting up like a bouquet of roses when he realized how close they were, that his hands were touching Sylvain’s lips, that he held his breath inside them. Pulling away, he looked down embarrassed. 

_ “I seem to recall standing where you are just a few short weeks ago.” _

_ “Things have changed since then.” _So much had changed, and things were still changing, even now, as they stood beneath the verdant woodlands surrounding the hill upon which Garreg Mach had been built. _ “Do you have plans tonight?” _

_ “Nothing worthwhile.” _

_ “Then, let yourself be mine for the rest of the day.” _

Linhardt must have not understood what his words had sounded like, but Sylvain did, turning the same brilliant shade of pink that Linhardt still wore. 

_ “Yeah. Okay. I can do that.” _ He scratched at the back of his head, his own gaze falling to the ground. _ “Lead the way. You’ve already got something in mind, don’t you?” _

That, he did. 

Linhardt had been planning on taking a nap following his afternoon research session, and, since the monastery became at times a little too rowdy, he searched for someplace more quiet. More secluded. The forest seemed an obvious choice to him. 

They hiked through the lush vegetation in silence, Sylvain trailing behind him at a comfortable pace. Close enough not to get lost, but just out of sight, so as to not create any more unnecessary awkwardness between them. Yet, when they reached a particularly odd juncture, the place where a narrow stream cut across their path, Linhardt turned back, offering him an open hand. 

_ “You must be careful here. The rocks aren’t as stable as they appear.” _

With a nod, Sylvain took him up on his proposition, grasping his hand most gently, and allowing him to lead him across. All that time, as Linhardt held him tightly in his grip, Sylvain willed his thoughts away. Thoughts of Linhardt’s cheeks, still sprinkled in blooms of light pink. Thoughts of his face, illuminated by a column of sunshine descending from the skies just to endow Linhardt with an appearance even more graceful than his usual. Most of all, thoughts of the wholeheartedness of his eyes as they peered up at him, as if questioning the very marrow of his bones, that which made Sylvain what he truly was. A coward. 

After crossing the stream, at which point Linhardt forsook Sylvain’s hand in favor of leading them on, it didn’t take them long to reach the coveted spot. Past a particularly thick patch of trees, they intruded upon a clearing so peaceful and tranquil that one could have swore that time, itself, had been deemed unworthy of stepping foot there. It felt sinful. But Linhardt marched on, unaware or simply ignorant of such a concept. 

Carefully, delicately Sylvain followed him to the center of the grove, where, raised high above them, an oak tree sat still in the mild breeze. Around them, each blade of grass swayed, moving beneath the wind, beneath the soles of their shoes, grasping at them ever-so-gently. Linhardt kneeled at the roots of the tall beech, palms pressed to the chilled soil. He was engulfed by its shadow, becoming one with the pastoral scenery. After a brief moment, he faced Sylvain. 

_ “Join me.” _

A command, no, a temperate ask that Sylvain couldn’t help answering to. He sat on Linhardt’s right, quiet and calm. Cool, really. And he waited, unsure of what to say. 

_ “Why are you here, Sylvain?” _

_ “Huh?” _ It was sudden, when it came. One second they were quiet, the next, Linhardt had the keen edge of his tongue pressed against his jugular, waiting. _ “You asked me to come.” _

_ “Not right now. Just in general.” _ He wouldn’t look at him, his eyes trained on the grass beneath his legs, hands fiddling with each other as he spoke. _ “Wherever I look, you’re always there. Always waiting. I don’t know what to do about it.” _

But that wasn’t really Sylvain’s problem, was it? Linhardt wasn’t picking at his bones, criticizing his actions or calling him out on his misdemeanors. He was reaching out. 

His hands stayed put. 

_ “I told you we were friends, right? So, come talk to me sometime. We could have tea together.” _ Sylvain smiled widely, and his hand reached back, settling on Linhardt’s head, petting it affectionately. _ “You can start by telling me more about yourself.” _

Linhardt watched him, treading carefully with his eyes before speaking. He wore wonder on his face, and he wore it well. 

_ “There is little to be said. I am the eldest son and heir of House Hevring, but such political notions bore me greatly. I would much rather apply myself to the field of crest research, ah, but you already know that.” _ A slip he covered up quickly. _ “I enjoy long naps underneath the open sky, fishing, and I reckon introductions are hardly my forte.” _

_ “I can see that.” _ They both laughed, for a second, and then Sylvain pulled his hand away. _ “To be honest, I already know all of that. Tell me something nobody else knows about you.” _

_ “Mhm.” _ Squeezing his eyes shut, he hummed in pleasure. _ “I've been craving Mercedes’ sweet treats. Uncontrollably so. I catch myself constantly daydreaming about the texture of her tart shells, the creaminess of her custard.”_

_"You really love sweets, huh?"_

_"Yes, more than most other things." _

_ “Alright. I’ll ask her for some next time I see her.” _

_ “You will?” _Linhardt’s eyes shot open, and he regarded Sylvain with the same look devout believers regarded their goddess. It was, unfortunately for Sylvain, a most adorable look. 

_ “I promise. What about more personal things? Ever been in love?” _

_ “Yes. Once. Though I would hardly call it that.” _

_ “Ooh? Now we’re getting to the good stuff. Who?” _

_ “Caspar.” _No hesitation. He opened himself to Sylvain like a book, unquestioningly. 

_ “That...makes sense. Moving on. First kiss?” _

_ “Caspar.” _

_ “Hm, how about something that makes you insecure?” _

_ “War. And blood. I can’t stand the sight of it.” _He sighed, inhaling the feel of the world all around him as a means to center himself. It was a small comfort, knowing that at least this place was still peaceful. _“Tell me that that is the end of this silly dating questionnaire.” _

_ “Just one more, if that’s okay with you.” _The wind settled at their feet. _“Before I met you, I didn’t really know a lot about who you were, but some of the girls I hung out with would talk.” _

_ “Mhm. They often do. I have heard it all and probably more.” _

_ “I figured.” _ Sylvain’s lips fell into a frown. He understood that he was treading on thin ground, swampy, quicksand kind of ground. But he also knew that Linhardt was the only one he could hope to ask and get an honest answer out of. _ “It doesn’t bother you, does it?” _

_ “Not particularly.” _ He was aware of what it was that Sylvain kept looking for. _ “It used to. A long time ago. They would make fun of me, everybody. That’s just about when I met Caspar, who decided it was his job to take care of me.” _ A laugh steeped in fondness, sweet memories unrolling themselves before him. _ “But I couldn’t let him do that forever. I had to take care of myself.” _

_ “It’s not fair to you though. Having people say all these things about you.” _His hands tightened as he balled them into fists. It just wasn’t fair. 

_ “Life is not fair. It never was about being fair. It was always about what you did with the unfairness, and I chose to disregard it all together.” _Up until Sylvain had sauntered into his life like nobody’s business, that is. Suddenly, Linhardt started caring in a completely different sense of the word. 

_ “Huh, so you really don’t care, do you?” _ He shrugged his shoulders because he was entirely out of his depth. _ Linhardt was_ out of his reach, and yet here he was, grasping at water only to have it trickle through the cracks between his fingers, the fractures in his perfect façade. 

_ “An astute observation.” _

_ “Enough of the sarcasm.” _ His sigh was only part exasperation. The rest, inadequacy. He felt inadequate this way, bared open only after being torn to shreds on the rocky shore of the ocean. _ “How do you do that?” _

_ “Do what, exactly?” _

_ “Not care?” _

_ “Mhm.” _ Linhardt murmured quietly, a surefire sign that he wasthinking through the question with utmost care. His head tipped to the side, then to the other, and he swayed between the two a few times while weighing his words carefully. _ “Time. And practice, I suppose. Maybe the question should be why it is that you care so badly.” _

_ “Because I’m tired of having everybody else decide what kind of man I am.” _ He spat the words out, an accidental emphasis. Linhardt didn't stop watching him. _ “If I make them”, _ and he shoved the _ ‘make’ _through clenched teeth_, “see me one way, then that’s at least one thing I get to have control over.” _

_ “Still, human beings don’t function that way.” _ Leaning back, he sprawled his body open onto the grass, inhaling the scent of each blade sprouting out of the ground before picking his voice back up. _ “You would venture to think that the sky is blue, is that not so?” _

Sylvain watched him for a moment before taking the cue of his silence to join him, chasing after him regardless of where he went. When he did, his shoulder brushed up against Linhardt, who, despite noticing, chose to do nothing about it. Instead, he reached up towards the heavens, hand open in a web that obstructed some of his view. 

_ “But what if the weather changed, and the clouds darkened? What if your blue was my purple? Or I simply had no way to gauge the meaning of such a colour for myself? Say I was blind, for instance.” _ And to that, he pulled his fingers back together and joined both his hands before lowering them to his eyes, just enough to conceal the entirety of the skies. _ “You might insist that the sky is blue, and it may as well be, but how could you ever control what I choose to believe?” _

As he spoke, Linhardt turned his head. Sylvain, who laid only a breath, a heartbeat, a daring kiss apart, grew softer at the sight. The earth beneath them seemed to melt away, and for a moment, the same moment in which the corners of Linhardt’s mouth rose into a tender smile, Sylvain felt his body sink far below his heart.

_ “Linhardt.” _ Reaching to grasp his hands, Sylvain lifted them away from his face. And as he did so, as if encouraged by some heavenly being far outside their realm, the sun, which had hid its visage behind a cloud in feigned timidness, peaked. All around them lit up, imbued with a warm, bright heat, and with it, so did Linhardt. _ “Have you always been this beautiful?” _

_ “Yes.” _

_ “A-Ah. I see.” _The bluntness of his statement blew right through his valor, and Sylvain fled, letting go of his hands and turning away. Beside him, Linhardt cocked his head, unsure of what had caused such a reaction. 

_ “Regardless”, _ propping himself up on one of his elbows, he reached over, hand chilly against Sylvain’s heated skin. And, with so much misunderstanding and misguided boldness, bent his neck until their faces almost touched. _ “You must accept that, quite simply, there are things you will never have control over. Your aim should be to live in whatever way makes you happiest.” _

At that, Sylvain’s gaze fell, brows furrowed in melancholy. He could not bear to look at Linhardt. Linhardt, who was so unbelievably beautiful, with his hair falling seamlessly against his cheeks, framing the ever-present flush of his face in such a way that it could not be avoided. Linhardt who knew so little and understood so much, who always seemed to stare through him as if he were nothing more than a crystal filled with fake fortunes and real misfortunes. It was _ that _ Linhardt he felt ashamed to face. 

_ “Even if it hurts others?” _

A pause. A weight shifting. A careless whisper lost to nature. 

_ “Does that truly make you happy?” _

And it didn’t. It didn’t make him one bit happy, but after all that time of putting on a mask to save face, he had grown roots in that place of never being understood, never being seen for what he truly was. Of never quite fitting in. So, just this one time, just for once—

The sun began its retreat. 

His hand was firm against the back of Linhardt’s head, where Sylvain could feel his silken locks. There, his fingers entangled, pushing forward, collapsing him into his own body. It was unexpected, and Linhardt’s eyes shot wide open, his earlier drowsiness charred to ash, but, not before long, he surrendered to it, eyelashes dipping closed. That small nudge was all it took to send him toppling over to where their lips could meet in an unlikely coupling. 

_ This _ made Sylvain happy. He felt his insides begin to glow, to lose gravity and start floating back, not to earth, but to the height of mountaintops, and Linhardt with him, clinging to his chest with heavy palms, fingers curled until his nails bit at the skin of his breast. 

Neither willed himself to pull away for a long while, and when they did, it was Linhardt who retreated, gaze averted, eyelids still half-weighed down by a fluster. Blossoming, it spread across his face, from the apples of his cheeks to his ears, until their tips were tinted with amaranth. Should Sylvain have been able to see his skin beneath the fabric of his clothes, he would have been confronted by the sight of a full-body blush. From the points of his shoulders to the edges of his hips, all red. 

_ “We should head back.” _ He uttered, but only his words reached Sylvain, eyes not daring to lay themselves upon him. _ “It will rain soon.” _

And his words would come to pass. 

Sylvain followed behind with downcast eyes, unable to bring himself to face the Linhardt that led him back to the monastery from a safe distance away. Neither of them spoke, not as they trailed back over the river, back up the hill to Garreg Mach or as they crossed the threshold of the gateway. Behind them, clouds swelled and swallowed the sky whole, taking the sun hostage while darkening the ground below. And, shortly after, it began to pour, just as they reached the dormitory entrance. 

There, Sylvain made to ascend the stairs back to his room, thinking it best to turn in for the night. Yet, as he sidestepped Linhardt, his arm got caught, unable to shake itself free. He looked back, allowing his eyes at long last to settle on the silhouette of a Linhardt at least as anxious as him. 

Sitting upright on the tips of his toes, making up for the difference in their heights, Linhardt returned that favor Sylvain had bestowed upon him beneath the oak tree, and his lips, though chilled and wetted by the rain, felt endlessly warm against his own.

✿ ✿

They never addressed it. 

Sylvain kept to his old habits. He would seek Linhardt out, dedicating entire afternoons, entire evenings just to his company, but his continuous flirting and messing around did not stop, and Linhardt did not mind. That was simply who he was. It was no secret. 

What did change, however, was the way they spent their time together. Sylvain would often invite him to his room, and when the invitation didn’t come, he’d simply show up on Linhardt’s doorstep, the same charming smile plastered to his face each time. It made it hard to refuse him entry, not that he ever wanted to because his company had become a constant in Linhardt’s life. Not having him there would feel wrong because Sylvain made him feel right. 

They would tangle their hands together, and Linhardt, with coy steps, would tug him inside where they could sprawl across his bed. And because the beds at the monastery were already too small for just one person, it would almost always end with Linhardt laying himself upon Sylvain’s chest, head pressed to his heart where he could listen to the sound of love. There, they would breathe together, bodies entwined into one until either Linhardt would doze off into a warm slumber or Sylvain would pull his face up, hand beneath his chin, and kiss him. For minutes, for hours, kissing each other lazily with sluggish lips. 

They didn’t do much else together, and that, alone, was more than either of them could have hoped for. 

And today was no different. Except Linhardt had left his room. He took his work back to the library, where, hopefully, some ancient tome could prove itself useful and solve his latest problem. The problem being, in large part, that he had been neglecting his studies to spend time with a certain redhead. Of course, there was no answer to a problem such as this. 

_ “Hey, Linhardt. I came by, but since the door was locked, I figured I’d find you here.” _

_ “How insightful. Might it not have occurred to you that my door could have been closed specifically to keep you out?” _

_ “Nah.” _ Pushing Linhardt’s books away, he took a seat on the desk, swinging around so he could see his face. _ “You could never resist me.” _

_ “Is that a challenge, Margrave Gautier?” _Despite his earlier claims, it had turned out that Sylvain not only enjoyed being called as such, but that it pleasured him in a wholly different manner. 

_ “Take it as you will, von Hevring. I’ll have you regardless.” _

With that, he bent low, stealing Linhardt into a kiss. His hand rested beneath his chin, propping his face up so he could reach him. Though sweet, there was a taste of urgency on Sylvain’s mouth that translated into a more forceful, a hasty kiss. Even his hand clutched him a little more tightly. 

_ “Sylvain.” _ Linhardt, pulling back, reached to cup his cheek, thumb tracing the bones beneath. _ “Something’s wrong.” _

Before him, Sylvain seemed to visibly wither, his shoulders slumping as the air left his body in a deep sigh. 

_ “Nothing escapes you, huh, Lin?” _ He laughed quietly. _ “But I’m afraid you’ll have to allow me to be selfish one more time. I really don’t want to talk about it.” _

He found this request reasonable enough. They all had things they would rather not talk about. That much he could afford him. 

_ “What shall we do instead?” _

_ “Come with me.” _He stood upright, walking away resolutely, Linhardt in his tow. No time for questions, then. But they wouldn’t be going far. Sylvain tugged him up the stairs to the upper level of the library, that same corner he had graced before with his perversions. 

_ “Please do not tell me we’ll be staying here.” _

_ “Your room’s too far, and so is mine. Plus, _ _ I won’t tell if you won’t.” _ Is what he whispered in a voice so faint it lingered on his lips and barely fell off, unwillingly. He said it as if their kisses earlier had been nothing more than spit in the face of an ancient taboo, the fissure in a promise he had kept against his breast since childhood. It was a vow that not all acts of intimacy must, in fact, be intimate. And even so, he was failing miserably at his own game because Sylvain was endlessly intimate. His hand pressed tenderness into the shelf off of which it anchored itself. _ “It’s a promise.” _

To anybody else, it would come as a shock that Sylvain could be so honest with him, but to Linhardt, it had become a reality. When he spoke, his tongue laid down truth upon truth for him to follow, trusting blindly because Linhardt knew. Sylvain was different. 

_ “It had never occurred to me that you would.” _ When he replied, he did so with a tone of detachment, because, quite frankly, it was of no concern to him what Sylvain chose to say or withhold. There was no mind to be paid to such trivialities as the opinions of others. _ “You have far more to lose than I, Margrave. Though I can’t help but wonder__—Is there enough restraint in that tongue of yours?” _

This time, Sylvain didn’t say anything, _ wouldn’t _ say anything now that Linhardt might as well have bitten off his tongue with that retort. And it was not because there were no words left to be said (no, there was always more to be said when it came to him) but because, instead, there was something better to be done. 

Linhardt watched passively when his lips curled slightly at one corner, when his teeth flashed white briefly, and he recognized the gesture instantly for the red flag that it was. An omen. Foreshadowing as Sylvain bent his neck downward, as he shaded Linhardt from the already far too soft glow of the candles, until the only light left was the glint in Sylvain’s darkened eyes. 

It was now that Linhardt began to see the silken milieu of the spider’s web closing in around him. The big game they kept talking came down, inevitably, with his fall from grace and into Sylvain’s arms. They beckoned him with their warmth as Sylvain framed his body, entrapping him between the shelves and his own figure. 

_ “Depends.” _His breath was warm against the chill that settled in Linhardt’s cheeks, lips ghosting over the outline of his own, ever so softly, blurring the question of exactly whose restraint was being called into question. The bait had been laid, and though Linhardt knew better, he found it to be irresistible, impossible not to bite. The payoff presented itself as too great to be passed on. 

_ “I suppose we will have to wait and see, then. Or, perhaps”, _ and Sylvain’s eyes couldn’t hold back from betraying him when they grew a little wider, if only for a second, now that Linhardt mirrored his earlier grin_, _ impish and entirely too playful, _ “would you care enough to demonstrate, this restraint of yours?” _

They would fall together, then. 

The laughter that rang out clearly from his throat poured over them in a refreshing stream, and Linhardt’s heart stuttered for a second when the sound of it thundered louder than he knew it to have originally been. Even after having died off, its presence persisted, traces of it left behind in a low echo that stalked at their heads from above. 

_ “Damn, Lin, I really can’t keep up with you. No matter how hard I try.” _When he pulled back, it was an entirely different expression that lit up his features. With Linhardt, he began to thaw, rounding out at the edges. It was only with him that Sylvain could come undone in an entirely different way, thread reeling itself back in, not bursting the seams up so much as voiding them altogether. By his side, Sylvain became whole again. 

_ “Then don’t. I’ll wait for you. I will.” _By now, he had become too flustered, mouth loosened by everything he wanted to say. Still, he nipped at his lower lip to stop there, not for his sake, but for Sylvain’s, whose gaze flickered along his face, scanning his eyes for that which remained unspoken. 

But it didn’t need to be said out loud. Sylvain played the fool while grieving for love, grieving to be accepted by those around him. 

Looking Linhardt in the eye suddenly became hard, his heart heavy and coming back up in his throat all swollen and sharp, like a shard of glass cutting off his vocal cords one at a time. So, he didn’t. Instead, he looked away. 

_ “Can I kiss you again?” _

_ “Since when have you needed my permission?” _Linhardt quipped, though it fell a bit flat when his mouth made no other move aside from voicing the words. His eyebrow, now cocked, was the only change in his visage. 

_ “Since I decided that I wanted to hear you say it.” _

This sort of reply was nothing short of the usual for the type of man Sylvain made himself out to be, and still, _ still_, it took Linhardt by surprise. Even after all that time. Even after all they had done. 

_ “And what could you possibly stand to gain from such an assertion.” _But there was nothing more to be done, now that Sylvain settled on being silent and Linhardt had already decided that there was nothing wrong with a little indulgence. 

_ “If it would please you so, then”, _ and yes, his voice came out through a sigh, but no, he did not mean it, _ “Sylvain, will you kiss me again?” _

It was nothing more than a courtesy because Sylvain would have, undoubtedly, continued kissing him regardless of his answer. And yet, there was an irrefutable difference this time around. 

The first move was made by his hand, meekly, as it laid itself upon Linhardt’s cheek, lending its heat to the skin it found there. A small, yet meaningful change in approach that wasn’t broached, but didn’t go unnoticed. The second came in the shape of a wayward breath, lost somewhere between their lips as they kept closing in. It trembled timidly, tenderly, and Linhardt could follow Sylvain’s mind as it juggled a number of different thoughts, though he could not be sure what those were exactly. 

There was a pause, and then the third move was left in Linhardt’s care.

This kiss, too, was entirely too different than the last and every other previous ones. When Linhardt took it upon himself to chip away at the remaining gap between them, when he cast away his reason, not his restraint, tipping the scales in exchange, everything began to change. Ever so slowly. 

_ Sylvain’s lips are soft_, he thought, and just that quick notion was enough to leave an impression behind where his mouth parted slightly to make way for a union between the two of them. His eyelids fluttered closed, leaving behind only the afterthought of a picture, of Sylvain’s own gaping eyes closing, and he focused on the heat surfacing up from deep within and rising to his face in short bursts, like the flame of a candle swaying beneath the breeze that was Sylvain’s breath, Sylvain’s taste, Sylvain’s heartbeat rushing him from multiple fronts. 

_ “How cute of you.” _Perhaps he should have been ashamed of how ragged his breath had gotten already, from only so much, or of how deeply flushed his face became all because of a few kisses, but Linhardt was too engrossed in wanting more to notice. His ears buzzed lightly with the beating of his own heart stirring impatiently inside his chest, and there was a heat that permeated from both of their bodies, intermingling in the narrow space between their chests, a reminder that they could still grow closer from here on out.

_ “You were taking too long.” _

_ “And you were being too patient with me.” _

Their earlier kiss had come to an end only to begin anew, this time at the behest of Sylvain, who, wrapping his arm around Linhardt’s waist, made miracles out of his unspoken desires. With converging bodies, they shared each other in soft-touched intimacies—Linhardt’s arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, fingers languorously playing in the short snippets of hair, and Sylvain’s own hands steadfast on his waist, kneading the flesh there lovingly. 

As they kissed, Linhardt ran himself breathless in a frantic attempt at dragging it out only to have Sylvain, of all people, spoil his plans. He surfaced and his heart was heavy with need, heavy with so much craving to hold Linhardt dearer than ever before, to see him come apart at the mere shadow of a hand cast upon the milky paleness of his skin or the caress of a breath so slight it may as well have never been there. Oh, what he would part with to see Linhardt’s visage painted by his own hands.

_ “Lin.” _Sylvain’s face sank into his shoulder, depriving Linhardt of the sight of his lips kissing along his collarbone, but making up for it ten times over with the feel of his mouth warm on his flesh. _“Let’s do it. I don’t want anything less.” _

Had he been faced with the growing tension of their bodies, the boldness of Sylvain’s touches, ever-growing, never relenting, for any longer, it still could not have prepared Linhardt for the stammering of his heartbeat as it bloomed and withered again and again. With eyes squeezed shut, his hands dropped to hold onto Sylvain’s shoulders, fingers anchored there. And his legs, his legs took upon themselves a tremor so slight it would have gone unnoticed by any witness except him. Tightening his grip on Linhardt’s waist, Sylvain held him steady, firmly, if only to imbue him with the same kind of confidence he paraded around. 

_ “You don’t have to answer me now”, _ and it really did wonders to hear him speak so kindly, in understanding, _ “I’ll wait for you, too, even if it means waiting to be rejected.” _

Pulling back, he revealed the small tug of his lips, a sad little smile. Pathetic, really. 

It didn’t suit him whatsoever. 

_ “You are an idiot, Sylvain Jose Gautier.” _He was more swift on his feet than he had thought it possible of himself within that moment, but Linhardt wasted no other breath in taking back what he had decided, right then and there, was wasted on Sylvain. The space between them ceased once again as he grabbed at the lapels of his jacket, pulling him down where their lips could meet once more, and, nipping at Sylvain’s lower lip, he allowed his tongue entrance. 

Sylvain, for his part, groaned in agreement, taking it as the answer he sought and replying in kind with a squeeze and a pull. There, he delighted in watching, feeling, _ tasting _ the assertion behind Linhardt’s gestures die off as quickly as it had flared up. Sylvain’s hand held his cheek in place while his own tongue rose to the expectation, pushing back and parting his lips to seek entrance inside his mouth. There, it ran itself along the underbelly of Linhardt’s tongue, and they mingled together, not quite sure of themselves but keeping at it nonetheless.

It was Linhardt’s first real kiss, and he savored it as if it could end at any moment, as if it might be his last. 

His eyes squeezed shut, trying to will away some of that thick fog that settled at the back of his head wickedly, clouding his mind, muddling his thoughts. But it was Sylvain, alone, who charmed him so dearly, until all he could do was mewl helplessly. His voice was a quiet cry, a drawn out moan that began as a gasp and ended in a groan. 

For Sylvain, it was an alarm bell. Not distress, but wonder at all these facets of Linhardt he was seeing, dimensions he had long ago deemed improbable, mythological. At that, he pulled back, index finger smearing the strand of saliva connecting them against his lips. He remained there for a short while admiring his work. 

Linhardt’s usually pallid skin had been tinted in roses, a flush pulsating with color from ear to ear, crossing his face at the cheekbones. His eyes opened and closed languidly, pupils dilated by the darkness and love. His mouth, too, hung agape.

It was nothing short of erotic. 

_ “Shit, Lin.” _It was contagious, and a blush similar to his overtook Sylvain. 

Then, as if those fingers had snapped him out of a trance, Linhardt blinked himself awake. He looked at Sylvain unsure, gauging secrets before spilling them all over. Timidly, he allowed his lips to wrap around the digit, feeling it out tentatively before his tongue grew impatient, grew bolder, and he began to suck at it in earnest. 

His eyelids trembled closed with a soft murmur while his hands reached to hold Sylvain’s steady, a lifeline amidst this ocean of newness. Linhardt worked his way up and down the edge, tongue swirling over the top in broad strokes, and despite how foreign all of this was, he found himself putting in the effort to make this as memorable for Sylvain as it was for him. 

It was cute. Entirely too cute. 

The rosy flush that still dusted his cheeks seemed to gleam and sparkle, robbing Sylvain of his ability to look away. Linhardt was beautiful in every aspect. His lips softened up against Sylvain’s skin, like a velvet kiss reeling him back in. Then, there was the effort, evident in the squeeze of his hands, the purpose at the tip of his tongue, the pull of his cheeks as he sucked lightly. He was trying and it showed. 

_ “Hey.” _ In that moment, only Sylvain’s smile could prove itself more tender than his voice. The hand Linhardt had not claimed for himself drew up to hold his face, shaking his eyelashes open. _ “Leave some for me, will you?” _

_ “Did it displease you?” _

_ “No, no. Are you kidding? That’s like any sane guy’s fantasy.” _ The red of his cheeks confirmed it as truth. _ “I just want to make your first time special.” _

_ “Bold of you to assume this would be my first time. And even more foolish of you to think fucking me in a library could be special after everybody else you’ve brought here.” _

_ “Linhardt!” _ He whined, half ashamed and half apologetic. _ “It’s the thought that counts! And, as long as you’re with me, it will always be special.” _

It was easy to forget Sylvain had other qualities, redeeming ones, when he opened his mouth to speak. Linhardt sank into the wall with a sigh, eyes rolling as he looked at him. 

_ “This is the part where you shut up.” _

_ “For you?” _ A wide grin stretched across his lips. Toothy and bright-eyed. _ “Gladly.” _

Seamlessly and without any effort, he lost Linhardt’s jacket, dropping it to the ground where it piled on itself, lifelessly. Then, hooking a finger in the collar of his shirt, Sylvain slipped past it, finding his pulse with his lips and kissing at it. The hand that had graced Linhardt’s cheek skimmed the angle of his jaw, dropping to his neck, then his chest, and settling, at long last, on his waist. The other slipped behind his back, allowing his body to fall into the embrace of his arm. 

Beneath him, Linhardt shuddered, his breath hitching higher with each charity Sylvain performed on him, with every kiss that melted into his skin, every touch of his fingertips tugging at the strings of his heart, with every intimacy bestowed upon him in utmost secrecy. 

A candle expired in the time that Sylvain laid worship on his body in a trail of kisses, of teasing nips, teeth grazing ever-so-gently over the edges of bone and muscle. He was endlessly careful in the way he held Linhardt, close one second, closer the next, and he turned everything that couldn’t be said over to his hands, so that they could let him know how deeply Sylvain had followed into the chasm before coming to his rescue. 

_ “Clearly, there are far better uses for that mouth of yours”, _and the sentence was punctuated by the light marks of his thumb outlining the shape of his cheekbones, committing their feel to mind, for later. Sylvain had come back up for another look, realizing how dearly he had come to miss Linhardt where he could not be seen. 

_ “So, I’ve been told.” _

But there were far better uses for Linhardt’s hands, too, which he put to work shortly after, if only to silence Sylvain for a while longer. Thus, with sluggish movements, he undid the buttons of his shirt one by one, dropping it to the floor together with the discarded jacket, and, for the first time, Sylvain had the chance to take a closer look at the slender figure of his fingers. 

He took note of their bony nature, the fluidity of their motion as they curled and uncurled, grabbing at fabric with ghostly touches that wove themselves seamlessly through the air. His eyes swayed while watching their patterns, even as Linhardt reached behind to pinch at the loose end of the ribbon holding his hair together. With a gentle tug, he freed it and shook his head, digits running smoothly through the silky strands, and as they settled, cascading down the back of his neck, he turned his attention to find Sylvain hopelessly fixated on him. 

They would break so easily. He knew it to be the truth, and even so, it was _ him _ that inevitably shattered at the sight of Linhardt’s fingers. 

_ “Lin, you’re seriously stunning.” _And he meant it, by the goddess Sothis, he meant it and if getting Linhardt to believe him meant he had to take back every other compliment he had ever given, every pick-up line spoken thoughtlessly, Sylvain would readily do so. 

But he couldn’t. So, instead, he let his body to do the talking. 

Without so much as allowing Linhardt to respond, to gather his thoughts and make sense of the manner in which those words had spread warmth inside of him, like a wildfire running rampant, ravenous to consume everything, Sylvain’s own fingers hurried along the waistband of his pants. He knelt at Linhardt’s feet, prostrated in fervent reverie and intent on fully disrobing him. A most appetizing sin. 

_ “Sylvain…” _, casting his gaze away, Linhardt anchored himself upright by grabbing onto his hair, but only after giving his cheek the softest of caresses.

_ “Let me do this for you, alright?” _ His eyes pleaded a most conventional request, downright generous, in fact, so much so that Linhardt found it impossible to refuse. Still, he could not bring himself to answer outright, giving up only a soft-spoken nod in reply. 

From here on, Sylvain took it all in small strides. 

With palms pressed against the inside of Linhardt’s thighs, he parted his legs, making way for his face to nestle into the fabric of his briefs. Above him, Linhardt faltered, getting caught off balance, and as Sylvain inhaled, taking in the scent of grass, of burning oak leaves, he exhaled sharply. Sylvain’s breath sat warm and wet against him, even through the fabric of his underwear.

_ “Aah, Sylvain—” _, his voice came out sharp, in a hushed gasp, and it elicited a smirk out of smug Sylvain.

_ “Ease up, Princess. I’m just getting started.” _

He was honest. 

When Sylvain reached to lap at Linhardt’s hardening dick, he was honest. When his lips split open, and he kneaded the fabric and skin all-the-same together, he breathed out the truth about his feelings, and Linhardt was just as honest, just as truthful. He was so generous, gasping silently again and again while Sylvain worked him up to a full erection before even properly touching him. 

A lifetime of teasing after, and Sylvain finally, for the love of the goddess, fathomed to tug his briefs off, exposing his hardened cock to the chill of the air. This time, he didn’t mess around, resolving to take it inside his mouth in one fell swoop, so smooth and fluid that it had Linhardt questioning, amidst a blubber of gasps and moans, just how often it was that Sylvain has engaged in such practices. Maybe once back then, twice just now, thrice, four times, day after day or perhaps at night, when nobody was left watching. 

With lips of plush, Sylvain wound around his cock. His mouth worked in elongated motions, up and down then back, and when precum pooled at the root of his tongue, he swallowed, throat tightening around Linhardt as he steadily swelled. He was threatening to burst, a steady stream of cries growing louder, more reckless, as it spilled out of him without remorse. 

The library grew torrid. 

He was almost there, almost at the peak of a height he had never dreamed of, never so much as seen it before, all on his own. Sylvain brought him there, hand in hand, or, well, dick in hand, and Linhardt’s vision grew weak, unable to keep up with all the stimuli. His thighs were overtaken by a tremor that warned him of the danger, of the approaching high and the inevitable fall following on its heels. That earlier fire boiled in the pit of his stomach, and when it kissed the edge, inching to spill over, Linhardt knew he had reached it. 

But Sylvain was quicker still. 

Climbing up, he peeled his lips back over the head of Linhardt’s cock with a wet, shameful _ pop_, never once letting his eyes stray off of him. His hand had grasped at the base of his cock, squeezing tightly, while he watched intently, rising to his full height. It was only then that he ventured to wipe his lips dry of Linhardt. 

_ “You can wait a little while longer, can’t you?” _

_ “I’ve been waiting an awfully long time. A few minutes longer hardly make any difference.” _

But it did. They both knew. 

Sylvain hummed, pleased anyway. At last, his all-knowing eye released Linhardt from its hold, moving on instead to the side, where it scanned through the various books lining the shelf beside them. A few seconds later it settled on a title and he pulled it off, opening and taking out a bottle and a small packet from its carved up insides. 

Beside him, Linhardt grew a shade paler, faltering back against the wall. His knees had finally given in. 

_ “Sylvain, I hope you understand that you are, quite frankly, the least romantic person I have ever had the displeasure of receiving a blowjob from.” _

_ “That hardly means anything when I’m the only one you’ve received a blowjob from.” _ The book, now entirely useless, was returned to its previous place. _ “I doubt you’ll still think so by the time we’re done.” _

_ “They could have you expelled for this.” _

_ “For some old, boring book nobody’s touched in fifty years? Nah, I doubt it.” _ That was hardly the worst of his crimes. _“It was for a good cause. For easy access. Now, be a good boy and turn around for me.” _

Trying his best to forget the sacrilegious knowledge that Sylvain, horny, immoral, wicked Sylvain had chosen a book and hollowed out its pages just so he could stash away a bottle of lubricant and some condoms in the library, _ for easy access, _Linhardt obeyed. Turning to face the wall, he planted his palms on either side of him, glancing back with a certain shyness. 

_ “There you go.” _ He had squeezed out some of the oil into one of his hands, while the other one sat firmly on his ass. _ “Now, bend over a little and relax. That’s the most important part.” _

His lips were reassurance against his shoulder blade, kissing softly at the skin there as he leaned in and pressed himself onto Linhardt’s back. Briefly, Linhardt could feel his erection against the small of his back, but before long, he became distracted by the feel of Sylvain’s finger rubbing against his entrance and he recoiled. 

Even so, Linhardt obeyed in silence. He slid down along the wall, back arching, ass raising to meet Sylvain along the way. Behind him, a hand moved around to reach his still-hard cock, and with a leisurely stroke, began to ease him into what was to come.

_ “I’ll go slow at first, so just let me know how you’re feeling, alright?” _

_ “I’m starting to think you’re more apprehensive than I.” _A laughter, louder than it should have been. 

_ “Maybe so. Just promise.” _

And he did. This was new for both of them. Less so for Sylvain, but _ Linhardt _was new to him. At least in this way.

With renewed confidence, Sylvain pushed past the ring of muscles, just the tip of his index finger first. Then, when he heard the sigh falling off of Linhardt’s lips, overwhelmed but increasingly more content, he pushed a little further, wiggling his way in. His digit curled along the ridge of muscle, massaging it gently into submission. Before him, Linhardt struggled to keep himself steady. It was already too much, but in the good kind of way, the greedy kind that made him want more. 

At that, Sylvain obliged, adding a second finger, and the hand he had left in charge of Linhardt’s cock let go, arm wrapping around him to keep him up. He was gentle, boundlessly so. That’s what Linhardt thought to himself in a brief moment of clarity. 

Even through the fabric of his uniform, Sylvain could tell how heated Linhardt had become. His hips, now held hostage by that primal need for more, rolled back, ass hitting his hand with each movement. He was ready, but Sylvain went steadily onward, seeking something deeper within Linhardt, and when he found it, he knew without a doubt that he had struck gold. 

In an instant, Linhardt’s eyes shot wide open, and he lost the lower half of his body in a thunder of sensation that struck and severed him cleanly in two. He collapsed into Sylvain with a piercing gasp, a sharp cry that shook him even more.

_ “Does it feel good there?” _

_ “Y-Yeah.” _ He nodded frantically, as if afraid that his voice had not truly come out, despite needing to inform Sylvain of the truth, the truth that he was utterly messed up. _ “It feels really good right there.” _

That was all he needed.

Sylvain pulled out, grabbing a better hold of Linhardt and kneeling down to place him gently on the floor. Then, wasting no breath, he undid his pants, dropping them to the ground along with the rest of his clothes until they were both just as naked. 

To Linhardt, it felt like he had never left. When he turned to look to the side, he saw Sylvain, missing his clothes, but right there, right beside him. 

_ “Kiss me first.” _He reached for his cheek, and Sylvain leaned in to oblige. 

As they kissed, a sweet, chaste little thing, Sylvain slid the condom on and slicked himself up with what remained of the oil, hand slow but sharp in its movements. 

_ “I’m going to take you now.” _A last chance. One more out. When they parted, Sylvain looked at him with mild eyes, a reminiscence of sadness in the crinkle of their corners. But Linhardt wouldn’t answer. Instead, he pushed Sylvain back against the wall and crawled into his lap, sitting himself there, with his hard cock rubbing against his back. 

_ “Not if I get to you first.” _And maybe it was impossible to tell for sure, but to Sylvain, it felt like he already had. 

Reaching behind, Linhardt grasped his erection, holding it steady as he positioned himself over it. With a shudder, its head already pressed against him, he slid himself all the way down to its base. Underneath him, Sylvain shivered. He threw his head back against the wall with a sharp inhale, eyes slipping closed. His hands reached to hold Linhardt steady, keeping him down as if he could fit more of himself inside, but they had already become joined as one. 

With Linhardt’s ass stuck to his thighs, they breathed together for an instant. And when Sylvain gathered every part of himself that had gotten lost in the aftermath of Linhardt straddling his cock, he opened his eyes and watched. Linhardt was small, lean, but there, towering over Sylvain, his spine curved in a bow, hands wrapped around his ankles for support, he seemed a lot bigger. Because, in that moment, he was Sylvain’s everything. 

_ “Goddess, Lin, you’re so perfect.” _ He immediately sat up, fingers brushing away the strands of hair that had encroached on Linhardt’s face, tucking them behind his ear. _ “You’re perfect and I don’t deserve you.” _

_ “You don’t, but I’ll let you have me regardless.” _Despite his words, he stood up long enough to lean in, sneaking a kiss onto his lips before returning to his previous position. Another intimacy. 

Then, leaving Sylvain with a childish grin on his face, Linhardt began to move, slowly but surely. He raised his hips, lifting himself off of Sylvain’s cock just up to its tip, before sliding back down. The feeling of fullness overwhelmed them right away, drawing all sorts of sounds from their tongues. Stutters and half-bodied exclamations, the first syllable of a name, but mostly moans and other murmurs. 

Quickening the pace as best as he could, Linhardt began to feel the buildup of tension in his arms, in his underworked thighs, and Sylvain seemed to know, by the stammering of his movements. Coiling his arms around his back, he pulled Linhardt upright, and, using those well-toned arms and legs of his, began lifting himself up and pulling him down against his body in a frenzied need for more contact.

It was then that Linhardt felt lightning strike him a second time. Sylvain had pinched that chord inside of him without so much as trying, playing his body like an instrument and drawing out a melody as saccharine as sugar. Linhardt’s voice, reaching a height unknown to either of them, came loose in a drawn-out cry. His eyebrows pulled together at the middle and he bit his lip furiously, nails digging crescents into Sylvain’s shoulders. He had gotten unbearably tighter. 

In turn, Sylvain groaned lowly, body growing hotter with each slap of their skins. He began to feel himself nearing the edge, and he squeezed Linhardt tight against him, as if scared that, somehow, once it would all be over, he might vanish like a dream. They were both getting closer, more reckless. The library, henceforth known as a den of depravity, buzzed to life with the sounds of their coupling. 

Recognizing the sensation engulfing him, Linhardt suddenly pressed their lips together in a final effort. He feared its end just as much as Sylvain, but they remained committed all the way to its conclusion. 

Unlikely, yes, but it wasn’t unheard of, for a couple to come together at the same time. It was, however, an affirmation of everything they had partaken in leading up to this moment. Linhardt came undone with a long, drawn-out moan that died off into silence upon its completion. He shook, electrified by his own body spilling over as much as Sylvain’s cum rushing inside him in thick spurts. He instantly collapsed onto him, seeking refuge inside his chest where he eventually stilled. 

But under him was Sylvain, speechless throughout the better part of it. The image of Linhardt coming had overpowered his own orgasm. At that critical moment, as he came, Linhardt had broken off the kiss, angling himself straight, a place from which Sylvain could see him entirely. And there, bathed in the glow of his climax, he smiled. A twinkle so wide and bright, so innocent and natural that Sylvain could not tear himself away from it, no matter how blinding it was. Linhardt had, in the heat of the moment, betrayed a most precious sight. 

They breathed deeply and Sylvain carded his fingers through Linhardt’s hair, free hand on his hip. It was a protective, possessive hold, but Linhardt only kept breathing, not fazed by anything. He nuzzled further into him, lips leaving kisses in their wake. 

_ “I don’t want _ _ this—us—to end here.” _

_ “By the goddess, are you confessing your undying love for me, Sylvain? Already?” _

He didn’t reply.

_ “But you love him, don’t you?” _ He sounded so small, shrinking now that he was no longer on top of things, and even though Linhardt’s head laid firm against his chest, Sylvain couldn’t help worrying that he might still lose him, even after everything. _ “Felix? That’s what you were going to tell me, isn't it?” _

_ “Yeah. I’ve loved him for as long as I can remember.” _

_ That’s an awfully long time to love someone_, Linhardt thought, not lending a voice to it. 

_ “Do you regret meeting me, then?” _

_ “Of course not.” _ And then Sylvain was pushing him off to where Linhardt needed to twist around just to face him. Unsure of what emotion should be staining his face, he settled on a frown. _ “He doesn’t have to be the only one though. I mean, he isn’t the only one.” _

With that, he turned his head, and Linhardt lost sight of the curvature of his eyebrows, the drop of his eyelids when he realized he didn’t know how to look at him anymore. A friend. A lover. There, slumped against the wooden shelves of the library, Linhardt found him to be more human than ever, so much lovelier than he had ever thought him to be. 

_ “Then, if there is a place for me too, in that heart of yours”, _ he was on his knees when he began crawling over to the spot where Sylvain had retreated, _ “lend me your love.” _

His lips placed a chaste secret on Sylvain’s lips. A promise, that this wouldn’t be the end, that Sylvain could be true to himself, true to Felix and that boundless love he held, without fear because Linhardt would stay by his side, forevermore. 

_ “I’m already yours.” _And one last kiss to seal it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Catch these hands wildly gesticulating as I make a case for "Sylvain/Linhardt/Felix is a supremely top tier ship that everyone should indulge in"


End file.
